


Mother

by TheDuckofIndeed



Category: The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Creation Myth, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 04:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18161723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDuckofIndeed/pseuds/TheDuckofIndeed
Summary: "She knew it was him, though his appearance had changed, and he began to stride forward with the same arrogance as his newly sealed Master, and she felt sick to see the face of the monster who had once been her son." My version of Ghirahim's creation and eventual turn to evil.





	Mother

**Author's Note:**

> Just an old story from 2014.

Long ago, very long ago, before humans gave up living in peace with the land in favor of razing it to make room for their settlements and their great fortifications, long before blood was ever once spilled by fellow man and people felt compelled to lock their doors and guard their homes at night, long before the land of Hyrule was even known by such a name, there was peace, a peace that began when the goddesses created all in existence and ended when the great war took place that had since been forgotten by all but the most astute scholars. Yes, there was indeed a peace once, millennia ago, after the goddesses left the realm of man, their work done, all but one, that is, save golden-haired Hylia, who chose to stay behind with her people and protect the sacred Triforce, an object of immense power, the power of one’s deepest desire, which could be a wonderful thing or a terrible one, depending on who wielded it, but at this time of peace, it was only good.

And while it was at this time, before history really began, that true harmony was a reality rather than an ideal, monsters and wild beasts, nevertheless, still roamed the land, an unfortunate consequence of Farore’s unbridled creation, but as man did not raise a hand against fellow man, their only enemy being the wild creatures, the people were still happy, for they had not yet learned to fear each other as they do in a time yet to come.

However, while the goddess Hylia was largely content to live here and watch over her people, she found herself lacking, for while she had many children, these people the product of her own hand, she had none to call her own as her people did. And so, to fill the emptiness she felt inside her, she created one more being, a being that she could take care of, who would be her companion, and who would also aid her in her divine purpose as protector of her people.

Once she decided on what form this new creation should take, she forged for herself a sword, a living sword, and while this sword appeared as any other, aside from the artful craftsmanship only one of divine origin could create, it set itself apart from any other blade because it also contained a spirit, whom she blessed with all the emotions of her people, so that he could love her just as she knew she would love him. This spirit took on the appearance of a teenager, and in that form he would stay, forever youthful, as he was immortal, just as she was, so there would always be one creation of hers that she could care for throughout the ages, that would never grow sick and old as her other creations would.

And though he was born with the ability of speech, at first, he was but a child, being newly created, and she taught him everything she knew, and she was greatly pleased at his intellect, in addition to his obedience whenever she had to wield him to fend off the wild creatures that threatened her people. But, what pleased her most of all was the companionship he gave her and how he could make her laugh with his exaggerated mannerisms and his colorful metaphors. She spent a great deal of her time, in fact, within the temple where his blade was normally kept, and they both grew to care for the other.

And though she tried to teach him what was good and right in the world, as time went by, he began to obsess more and more over his appearance, despite her frequent reminders that inner beauty was the only beauty that truly mattered. Nevertheless, she found herself less than strict in enforcing the lessons she tried to instill in him, for the normally stern goddess had found a soft spot in her only son, and one day, to her surprise, she found that he had taken on a form more similar to that of her people, made from flesh rather than metal, his appearance continuing to change with each day that went by until he had found one that satisfied him.

It was at this time that he informed her that he had arrived, at long last, at a form whose beauty would put the rest of her people to shame, his clothing just as flamboyant and flashy as his behavior, and his skin so fair, it was almost pure white. And while he was technically neither male nor female, it was clear such distinctions meant little to him anyway, based on the makeup and jewelry he adorned himself with. And by now, the goddess found that her renewed efforts at scolding him for his vanity made no difference, these reprimands only causing him to claim, in jest, that she must be jealous. Deciding it was a lost cause, she came to the conclusion that if it made him happy, she didn’t have the heart to go beyond feeble admonishments for such a minor sin as his, for all she wanted for her son was for him to be happy, and at least she finally had a name for him. He called her Mother, and she named him Ghirahim for his pride.

And her efforts, weak as they were, to teach him right from wrong only grew even more ineffectual when she found him crying one night, his true reason for his new appearance made known to her when he finally explained, once the sobbing had died down and she held his shaking frame in her arms, that if only he appeared human like the others, if only they could forget he was really made from metal, that it was not bone that hid beneath his skin, but steel, perhaps they would stop thinking of him as a mere object, and the goddess tried to comfort him with reminders that he was indeed as alive as anyone else, even if he didn’t age and his flesh merely covered something inhuman underneath, and it was all true, for it didn’t make Ghirahim artificial just because of the material he was composed of. In many ways, with the passion he held for each day, he was, in fact, filled with even _more_ life than any of the mortal beings she had created. Nevertheless, despite her efforts to console him, she found his past cheer to dissolve into despair over the very matter of what others must think about him, how he believed that her people viewed him as little more than an object, a tool, or how they seemed to avoid him because of his differences, and she stayed up all night with him in his loneliness, to wipe away his tears as a mother ought to do for a son.

But, there was one matter, aside from her son’s newest depression, that pressed on her mind, the fact that Ghirahim remained incomplete, for she had found long ago that the intensity of his emotions made such a task unwise, as she worried what might happen if she tempered him and made him stronger before he had yet learned to exercise control over himself. She had seen the strength he already possessed as he was now and had felt the terrifying ease at which she could slice through the wild beasts that hunted her people, and while it was a feeling she didn’t want to admit she had in regards to her own beloved son, she couldn’t help but become frightened at how destructive he was, a power that was safe when wielded in her own hands, but a dangerous force when he was left to himself, to use with as much or as little control as he chose to exercise.

And while he grew angry at her refusal to complete him, his tirades growing more eloquent and his gestures more theatrical the older he became, the violence of these fits when he didn’t get his own way increasing, as well, his erratic behavior only confirmed to her how foolish she would be to give in to his demands. And as the frequency of his tantrums increased and he devoted more time to sulking, unseen, in his blade, she insisted that he learn to control himself, which only sent him into a furious rambling over his inability to understand why she gave him emotions when he couldn’t use them. How he _would_ be a mere object if he did as she asked.

And the day came that she was a fool to not see coming, and for not preventing because of her own lax discipline of her son, the day she found one of her people slaughtered, their body lying in a pool of blood on the floor, her very temple desecrated by violence when it should be a place of peace. Her rage was swift, and her son knew better than to sulk this time, appearing before her with his head hung low and his face already wet with tears, apologizing between sobs for losing his temper and promising he would be a good boy from now on, if only she wouldn’t lose her love for him because of his transgression. She forgave him, at least in words, even if her heart had suffered a blow that would never heal, though she scolded herself for the fleeting thought that a living sword may have been a mistake, that _he_ was a mistake, for a mother ought not think such thoughts about her own son, but it was her creation of him that had resulted in the first death of one of her own in such a way.

He was indeed more obedient after that day, and she found him to be much more calm, more docile, than she had ever seen him since he had been forged, but looking him in the eye became difficult after what he had done, and even more so after seeing the despair her people felt over the loss of one of their own, and she had to lie for the first time to them to hide the grievous sin her son had committed, both for his sake and so her people’s hearts couldn’t be poisoned by a hatred they had yet to ever feel, that she hoped they would never feel.

She found him to be far more affectionate, as well, picking her flowers and vying harder than ever for her approval, fawning over her and pointing out every chance he got how well he had behaved that day. Eventually, she was able to return his sentiments again, stroking his hair whenever he snuggled next to her, but the memory of that day still hung heavy in her heart, and she couldn’t hide it from him, no matter how hard she tried, for he was indeed intelligent, as he was her most special, if flawed, creation, and she could feel them growing apart again before there were even any outward signs of it.

Again, his intense emotions returned, his behavior turning even more erratic than it ever had before, whenever he dropped what had since become _feigned_ adoration for her in favor of fits of almost animal-like rage over how she obviously loved the humans far more than she loved him, while he insisted that _she_ , too, must see him as a mere object that she could use when she needed and ignore when she didn’t. And she gave up telling him these beliefs were untrue the umpteenth time he screamed them at her, choosing instead to just leave before these tirades could go very far, though her failure to acknowledge his outbursts was only met with an increased effort to incite some emotion from her.

And when he told her he hated her, even if she knew it was only a child’s tantrum, it hurt just the same, and when he expressed his great desire to leave, she obliged, her easy submission serving only to silence him, before he asked her why she didn’t want him around anymore. She didn’t desire to keep him here if he was so unhappy, she said, and she united him with his blade so that he could roam free, and for the first time since she had known him, he was speechless, and then with a snap of his fingers, even if the extra gesture was unnecessary, he vanished, leaving the goddess alone and her temple empty.

Time passed, and the void she once had, back before she had filled it with a son, was torn open even wider than it had been before she created him, and the temple was filled with the sound of crying many a night, but the sound hers this time and not his, a sorrow she didn’t even allow her attendant, Impa, to soothe. And when her isolation failed to make her grief go away, she tried to ease her new loneliness with the company of her people, whom had only experienced their first taste of sorrow since the day one of them had been killed, murdered, and there would only be more to come, Hylia knew, when she heard news of the appearance of creatures of great evil, that possessed a hatred and a desire for the misery of others that the wild beasts never had. Demons, based on the description she had received from the robots of the lush coast of the Lanayru Province, and she felt the stirrings of war within her heart, a word that was still unknown to her people, but she knew it was coming as surely as she knew the other reason for her inability to sleep at night was from the concern she felt for her wayward son’s safety now that he had been on his own in the world for some many months now.

And while a part of her believed that he might return one day, as even in the worst of times in their relationship, she knew he secretly wished for the love she was more than happy to give, but he was too stubborn to accept, she hoped even more that the new danger that had just arisen in the world would drive him home, so she could hold him in her arms, and he could once again act as her sword in the time of her people’s greatest need. And when she awoke in her temple in the middle of the night, sweating and gasping for air after yet another vision of the hideous and scaled, ebony beast that had begun to invade her sleep ever since the demon sightings had begun, sometimes she expected to see him again, but not the Ghirahim from their last talk, but the one from long before, back when he was still innocent and naive and had never spilled the blood of her people. Yes, she wished so desperately for this version of her son back, but even as a goddess, she lacked such a power, and when a great fissure opened up one night in Lanayru, she accepted then that he wasn’t coming back, and she readied herself a new sword, a lifeless sword, to combat the army that had just begun their march across the land, led by one who wished to lay his hands on the Triforce she protected, the Demon King Demise.

As the demon army advanced towards Faron Woods and the temple where Hylia guarded the Triforce, they left destruction in their wake, people massacred and the land blighted, the Lanayru Province being reduced at an alarming rate to nothing but barren, scorched soil, with the threat of even the ocean itself drying out, and as these horrors met Hylia’s ears, one detail made her heart pound all the more, as the few that had seen Demise and survived had said they had witnessed the Demon King to be wielding a mighty, black sword that struck almost as much terror into their hearts as the Demon King himself. They described the sword as having such immense power, that it was almost like its own entity, as if it was being controlled by more than just the Demon King’s hand, and Hylia had collapsed at this news when her legs gave out beneath her, her people kneeling down and trying to comfort her when she should be the one soothing them, asking her what had drained the color from her face so, and she couldn’t say, as she hadn’t even told anyone, save for Impa, that Ghirahim had left at all, for they couldn’t know what crimes he was committing against them or the shame she felt at finding her own son to be serving their enemy.

Having no other choice, the goddess prepared for battle, with the knowledge that she would surely meet her own son again one day, but not in the way she wished. Refusing to allow any more of her people to die, Hylia gathered them all up in one place, and with a mighty tremor, she split the ground, sending skyward a pinnacle of land to bear them and the Triforce aloft before creating a barrier of clouds even the demons couldn’t cross, and with her people safe, the Triforce far beyond the reach of the Demon King, she led the five tribes that remained on the Surface against the demon army. They fought a brutal and bloody battle, the losses on either side significant, but while their enemies fought with a much greater ferocity, they were also motivated by fear of their King and his unnatural sword, their terror goading them into a frenzy, lest the Demon King turn his black sword against his own. It was Hylia’s side, however, that fought with much more than a lust for destruction and mere self-preservation in mind, but with a courage only their goddess could inspire, and it was with that courage that the demons were driven back, all that remained, at least, except for the Demon King himself.

The dreaded battle came, when Hylia lured Demise to the bottom of the spiral pit where once held the spire that carried her people to safety, with the demand that he prove to her that he wasn’t as cowardly as his underlings and face her alone in battle. As expected, he was more than willing to oblige, and it was here the fiery-haired beast, with scales of obsidian, that was the Demon King Demise, faced the goddess Hylia, and though she was slight in frame in comparison to his muscular build, she held her own, even if her focus was not so much on him, but on his sword, now completed, a wicked thing, turned black and spiked with the evil Demise had obviously endowed it with. 

She could sense him in there, Ghirahim, but he was not the Ghirahim she once knew. The Ghirahim who, long ago, when he was still young, still pure, did nothing but make her smile, make her proud, whom she knew loved her as a mother, even if he was not born in the same manner as a son normally was. He was not the Ghirahim she once loved, even if the feeling could never truly be erased, even if this…this monster before her was not really him. All she sensed now was cruelty and a lust for bloodshed and the misery of others. All she sensed now was a creature who had murdered countless of her people, relishing in their suffering, and while his blade gleamed, recently polished, in the moonlight, he was still stained with blood, forever tarnished with the atrocities he had committed. He repulsed her, her own precious son, whom she had once so adored, whom she had tried to teach in the ways of good, whom had been her companion and she his. Why had he gone so wrong? Where had _she_ gone so wrong?

Bloodied and her strength waning, Hylia let out a cry borne more from deepest despair than the effort of battle, and she lunged forward with a recklessness she had advised her son against countless times in the past, her momentum propelling the blade she held outstretched before her into the Demon King’s chest, right through where his heart should be, if she believed such a beast to possess one, and he stared down at her, the arrogance gone from his face for the first time since their duel began, replaced now only by a simple, dumb shock, the same shock that caused him to drop his sword, as his mind tried to surmise just how he been struck such a blow by a woman so much smaller than he, with a sword far inferior in power.

But, it wasn’t enough, even if such a wound would have been against any other, but not the Demon King, and his hands gripped hers, and she winced as they tightened, breaking bones as he began to pull the blade from his own chest, the black of his blood flowing free, but the goddess had one last trick up her sleeve, for she was not going to die, her wounds fatal even for someone of her divine power, and allow this man to rule the land the goddesses had created, to oppress those who had fought alongside her, and she pulled her blade from him as his hands released hers, staggering backwards as her mangled fingers fought to keep their grip on her sword. And it was then that the Demon King, blood flowing like a black river from the wound in his chest, made a fatal mistake, to take his focus off the goddess, panting and unsteady as she was, for even a second, to turn it to his fallen sword, wicked grin spreading across his hideous face as he spared her no more than a sidelong glance, his lack of attention surely stemming from none other than a belief that she was soon to be the one to receive the final blow.

With one final cry, she leapt into the air to lodge the sword into his head, teeth gritted as she tried to ignore the agonizing pain in her broken fingers, before sending down the blade a powerful spell that would seal Demise away, where he could hurt no one. He grunted, extending an arm to reach for her, but she stepped away, his calloused fingers only brushing her bloodied ones before he was sinking into the ground in a black mist, and the last thing she saw was his snarling face, and the last thing she heard was his promise to break free one day and finish what he had started, before she collapsed onto the ground, her mind giving way to darkness before she had even landed.

When the goddess awoke in the morning, she found no sign of her encounter the night before, save a marble spike where the Demon King had once been, her sword having taken on this form once the spell flowed through it, though no sign of her son remained. She could sense an aura emanating from this spot, however, of untold evil, assuring her that the Demon King was indeed imprisoned here, but he was powerful, and a spell cast in her weakened form could only hold out so long against such hatred as what came from that beast of a man, a hatred so intense, it was almost like a tangible thing, turning the air about the marble spike rank with its taint.

She cried out as she attempted to push herself off the ground, remembering now the injuries she had received not so long ago, and instead settled for pushing herself up with her elbows, and she rose to her feet, nearly unrecognizable as a goddess, covered as she was in the soil of the earth and the blood of her own body and that of her enemy’s.

She returned to her temple to clean herself off as best as could be expected with broken hands, a new plan taking shape out of the mist of her thoughts. After her injuries, she would be unable to do much more to protect her people than she already had, and so she would need someone else to do it in her stead, a hero with the courage of those who had fought at her side, and without wasting further time bathing a body that would not serve her much longer, she got to work creating something she had sworn she would never bring into existence again, but the only way to put her chosen hero on level footing with the Demon King was if he had a sword spirit to call his own, as much as it pained her to think she was creating one child to counteract another.

But, this time, she would leave nothing to chance, and what took form before her was a new sword, with a new spirit. And this spirit appeared before her, this one in the shape of a young woman of blue metal, dressed in stockings on her legs and with a cloak like wings adorning her arms, and when she addressed the goddess, her voice was beautiful to behold, but with one thing sorely lacking, the emotion that had made her lost son a joy before this very thing led him astray, but the goddess learned from her mistakes, and so Fi, as she named her newest daughter, for how her voice was like a song despite the absence of feeling, was made to be the opposite of her failed child, made with the unwavering devotion and logic the robots of Lanayru, now reduced to a mere desert, possessed, but a devotion that was not born of love, because love was not always lasting.

She spent but a few days with her newest child, the one that could never care for her, but would also never hurt her, programming into her, as if she was a mere machine and not a living being, everything she needed to know in order to serve the hero who would eventually stop Demise for good, as she didn’t have the time to teach her in the traditional way, and she sent her, within the Goddess Sword, up into what she had since named Skyloft, to wait out her time until the hero was born.

And then all that was left was one final thing, for while the goddess was near death, she couldn’t rest knowing the Demon King would be free again one day, hero to oppose him or not, and so she shed her immortality, as meaningless as it was right now, reducing herself to a mere mortal, whose soul would not only go on to live another life one day in the future, but who would also be able to wield the power of the Triforce, as the sacred relic could only be used by mortals and not by the goddesses who had created it, so she would be prepared in the event of the Demon King’s eventual return.

And with the knowledge that this life would not be her last, she sat down to rest by one of the pillars, not far from the spot where her son’s blade had once been, and she slumped in her pain and exhaustion, eyes downturned as her breathing came not quite as easily as it once had. And then she felt a presence in the room, and her gaze lifted up from the stone of the floor to alight on him, the one she had so loved, standing a distance away in his true form and watching her with yellow, pupil-less eyes. She knew it was him, though his appearance had changed, his metal body nearly black now, just like his blade, and he began to stride forward with the same arrogance as his newly sealed Master, grinning a wicked sort of smile, and she felt sick to see the face of the monster who had once been her son.

“How nice to see you again, Mother. I’m sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances,” he said, showing fangs that were not present last she had seen him, and then there was a flash as diamonds drifted about him, and he had taken on his Hylian form without missing a step, his clothing even more revealing than ever, diamond cutouts that went much too high showing the skin of his legs, two more on his chest and torso, his immodesty only just covered by a crimson mantle.

“How blasphemous that you still parade about in the form of those you have wronged,” she said, but his smile didn’t so much as flicker at her words. Instead, he stopped not far away, chuckling, before throwing his arms open wide in one grand motion.

“In case you haven’t noticed, my Master has set me free, not so unlike what you once did. The only difference is,” he continued, his arms lowering back to his sides and his fingers twitching as his face grew serious, “he actually wants me back, once I can find a way to revive him. You see, he is fine with how I am. He allows me to make full use of the emotions you so graciously blessed me with. My Master, the Demon King, accepts me the way I was created,” his smile returned, “flaws and all.”

“I never said I didn’t want you back,” Hylia said, “You just never came back.”

He giggled. “Having second thoughts, then?”

She dropped her gaze, knowing from experience what resulted when she played his games, the games of a child, as that’s what he had always been, all the time she had known him. He grew more intelligent, more cunning, but that was one thing about him that never changed.

“I saw that you replaced me already. What is her name?”

“She is not a replacement.”

“What is her name?” he repeated, more forcefully this time.

She looked up again to find him gazing down at her with his hands to his waist. “For what reason did you come here?”

“What reason do I need to visit my dear Mother?” He came forward and dropped to one knee before her, setting gloved hands on either side of her face as he forced her to look at him, and she noticed that the brown of his eyes was now black. “Oh, poor thing, you look hurt. Did my Master do this to you? He shouldn’t have.” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, the long bangs that covered one eye swinging from side to side. “He doesn’t possess the same manners that I have. You still have blood on your face. Would you mind if I…cleaned it off for you?”

A long tongue slithered over his lips, another thing he had lacked before, and she raised her hand and slapped him across the face, and he reeled back as she screamed, her broken fingers bending in ways they shouldn’t be capable of. She groaned, keeping her hand steady to see if that would allow the pain to recede, and when she looked back up at him, her eyes tearing up with pain, he was on his feet again, hand to his cheek, and she looked away when her eyes met his black ones.

“Is that how you treat your son when he returns to you? It’s no wonder I didn’t come back sooner.”

“Ghirahim,” she began, “if you came here to spend the last moments of my life with me as my son, I’ll gladly accept you as such. But, if you came here as the Demon King’s servant, then I don’t want you here.”

He was silent, before saying, quite simply, “I see…”

More silence, and she continued to pant, her breath becoming short as she kept her eyes on anything but him.

“Then,” he said at last, “I suppose I’ll be going.”

And though she felt his presence depart from the room, she continued to watch the floor, and as she felt her life slowly fading from her, like an hourglass emptying of sand, she thought back to the son that had loved her once, that never wanted to hurt her, and that would cry even when he should be too old for it if he suspected she was displeased with him. But, he was gone, long gone, the man she had seen now someone else, even if their appearances were much the same.

And though he believed the Demon King to have accepted him as he thought she never did, she knew he would one day find out the truth, that in the Demon King’s eyes, he was merely a tool, to be used as such and to be disregarded when he wasn’t needed. He would learn that one day, the hard way, of that she was certain, and if he wanted to return to her, she’d be waiting for him, in whatever form she took in the future. And if he was too stubborn to learn, as he no doubt would be, her only relief was that soon she wouldn’t remember this pain that was so much worse than the gouges and the broken bones, and she could shed no more tears over what he had become.


End file.
